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Ne cherchez plus mon coeur les be tes l'ont mange . Don't search any further for my heart wild beasts ate it.

Charles Baudelaire

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Charles Baudelaire
Age: 46 †
Born: 1821
Born: April 9
Died: 1867
Died: August 30
Art Critic
Author
Essayist
Literary Critic
Poet
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Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
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Wild
Heart
Coeur
Beasts
Beast
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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France at the dinner table in faraway places but here, among ourselves, in the family, let us face the facts: France is not poetic to tell the truth, she even feels a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.
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To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
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If the word doesn't exist, invent it but first be sure it doesn't exist.
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Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
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I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.
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Delacroix was passionately in love with passion, but coldly determined to express passion as clearly as possible.
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Strangeness is the indispensable condiment of all beauty.
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It is good sometimes that the happy of this world should learn, were it only to humble their foolish pride for an instant, that there are higher, wider, and rarer joys than theirs.
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One must work, if not from inclination, at least out of despair — since it proves, on close examination, that work is less boring than amusing oneself.
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Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
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Every idea is endowed of itself with immortal life, like a human being. All created form, even that which is created by man, is immortal. For form is independent of matter: molecules do not constitute form.
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Unable to suppress love, the Church wanted at least to disinfect it, and it created marriage.
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I am the wound and the knife! I am the slap and the cheek! I am the limbs and the rack, And the victim and the executioner! I am the vampire of my own heart.
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Life is a hospital in which every patient is possessed by a desire to change his bed.
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How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
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What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
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So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, be endlessly drunk.
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But the true voyagers are only those who leave Just to be leaving hearts light, like balloons, They never turn aside from their fatality And without knowing why they always say: Let's go!
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The more delicate and ambitious the soul, the further do dreams estrange it from possible things.
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